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by falselashes (Hierophant)



Category: Ensemble Stars! (Video Game)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Multiple ships, Unrequited Love, drinking/smoking mention
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-04
Updated: 2017-12-04
Packaged: 2018-08-30 13:14:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8534539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hierophant/pseuds/falselashes
Summary: A collection of Izumi-centric short pieces. 4. Adoring Past - Sometimes, however, Makoto thought about the past and felt himself slip.5. A Dance (with Leo) - Still, Izumi thinks that life is kind of like a ballroom dance.6. In Transit - two super-short izuleo vignettes. Angst and fluff.





	1. So this is How You Fall in Love

**Author's Note:**

> 0\. Ritsu/Izumi   
> //DELETED  
> 1\. Izumi/Makoto  
> 2\. Leo/Izumi  
> 3\. Leo/Izumi  
> 4\. Izumi/Makoto  
> 5\. Leo/Izumi  
> 6\. Leo/Izumi  
> Ships that will probably occur in the future: Izumi/Tsukasa, Izumi/Nazuna

Izumi’s state of grace exists in moments like these, as he takes lazy drags off the occasional cigarette and Leo is right next to him, snoring away with the elegance of a hungry elephant. He gets out of bed cautiously. Smoke escapes like twining vines from his mouth, his lungs.

Their room is lit solely by the string of fairy lights Leo insisted they buy and hang up last winter. _Because they’re cute and magical,_ Leo justified at the time. In the semi-darkness, Izumi wonders if he should still indulge in Leo’s capriciousness as he crushes his cigarette in what he hopes is an ashtray. They’re both adults now (or at least an approximation of it—Izumi is still pelted by popcorn, courtesy of Leo, when they watch pirated movies together) and Izumi occasionally arrives at the poignant realization that they have never been so old before and will never be so young again.

And then there’s Leo, who forms tornadoes when he kicks piles of autumn leaves and yet remains unscathed in the onslaught of time, the eye of a storm. Izumi follows the outline of Leo’s fluttering lashes. Even as he sleeps, Leo is constantly announcing his presence, whether through his guttural breathing or mysteriously misplaced limbs. Perhaps that is his _modus operandi_ , Izumi reflects. He makes sure he’s always taking up all the space in your bed and claims that it is his, _you_ are his. Izumi checks that Leo is tucked in properly before making his way onto the balcony.

Four a.m. Outside, a light breeze makes the sound of waves in trees. Lights flicker on and off in the distance, no doubt a testament to late-night talks and early-morning fights. Izumi lets his mind wander as he waits for a new day.

…

They were going home from band practice one golden sunset on their last year at Yumenosaki when Leo detoured to a 7-11 and bought them both a bottle of tea. Izumi saw Leo glancing furtively at a gachapon machine on their way in, so when Leo came out of the store Izumi hurled a capsule at his face. Leo looked uncharacteristically serious then, his reddened forehead slightly scrunched, his gaze impenetrably cryptic. That was, of course, before he opened the capsule, found a bendable green alien keychain inside, and gave Izumi a smile so brilliant that its recipient thought he could hear his own heart beating. (But only for a moment.)

Izumi didn’t notice how silent Leo became as they walked side-by-side that day, but perhaps he should have. The road opened to a gently sloping field that bordered the riverbank. Leo quietly grabbed Izumi by the sleeve and sat down on the grass. Izumi wanted to tell him that he had homework that day and he had to go home, but something told him _fuck it_ and made him shut up.

They drank in silence. Leo stared at the keychain, which he held in front of his face; Izumi set his gaze on the shadows casted by the setting sun, expressing unjustified interest in the round, translucent shapes projected by the rolling condensation on their drinks. They stayed like that for a while, each lost in their own thoughts. Izumi remembered racking his brain for a way to break the silence—Leo was weird, but he was the awkward one—yet, years later, he still cannot fathom what went on in Leo’s head in the twenty seconds that ensued.

That was, Izumi began saying, “the sunset is beautiful today, huh,” when Leo leaned over with his eyes wide open and smashed their lips together.

Kissing Leo was kind of odd. Izumi can’t remember whose lips were drier, despite all the tea that they drank that day. He does, however, remember a faint sweetness surrounding Leo as they stared at each other, noses bumping together awkwardly. Then Leo broke away and ran home without looking back once.

…

A baby is crying in the distance. _Yes._ Sometimes the years roll by without Izumi’s knowledge, in leaps and bounds and in slow pirouettes, in a manner that is both haunting and reassuring. Then time halts in the present and he is left with old joys, old pains, and _Leo_. The sun should rise soon.

…

The next few months passed ridiculously slowly, even if adulthood turned from _will_ to _is_ with an alarming speed. There were times when Izumi caught Leo staring and almost mustered up the courage to say something about the atmosphere between them, which oxidized after that sunset, after the kiss that was shared. But Leo would look away and Izumi would feel the words in his throat dissipate into air. There were also times when Leo wasn’t looking but Izumi still wanted to say something, wanted to let the pooling words pour out from his mouth with the kind of courage that Leo probably had. But neither of them said anything, so time marched on with its awkward steps.

One night, the whole unit went out for teppanyaki. Arashi somehow managed to get Tsukasa to drink for the first time in his life and the result was disastrous—Tsukasa started crying about his iPhone games while Arashi and Ritsu egged him on. Izumi was watching, half-concerned and half-filled with a sort of evil mirth, when Leo tapped him on the shoulder and asked him if he’d like to go and get some fresh air.

Once they stepped out of the restaurant and the noise of the diners was behind them, Izumi felt oddly exposed. It was raining softly. Leo was about to head back inside when Izumi blurted out, “no, stay,” and dragged him across the street, underneath the awning of a closed café.

For a while, they leaned against the glass windows, uncertain of what to say. To no one’s surprise, Izumi caught Leo staring at him again, but something about Leo looked different that night. A droplet of rain clung to Leo’s eyelashes like the paper stars that hung suspended over baby cribs. _Shit_ , Izumi thought to himself.

So he took a deep breath. “I—I…” he managed to begin before his breath hitched.

Leo looked at him expectantly. Yet the more Leo looked, the less courage Izumi had. His cheeks flare up; beads of sweat began forming on his forehead.

Finally, Leo completed Izumi sentence for him. “You mean to say, I… like you, right? You like me?”

 _Shitshitshitshitshit._ “—because I like you, too.”

Leo didn’t wait for confirmation before he tiptoed and kissed Izumi. This time he was gentle, and Izumi closed his eyes and parted his lips slightly to let Leo’s tongue touch his. It was by no means a perfect kiss: Leo lost his center of balance and almost fell on top of Izumi. But Izumi knew that they’d have years to make it so. When they separated, Leo looked up and asked quietly, “so are we… dating now?”

Leo’s cheeks were very pink. Lit by the street lights, his eyes looked like glassy seas. Stars danced between his bottom eyelashes. Izumi wondered what it felt like to be drowning, to have air gently sucked out of his lungs while his mouth gasped for air and formed foreign words. It all made sense to him then, their pregnant silences and their laughter and the nights he spent awake. _So this is how you fall in love_ , he thought to himself.

A small globe of rainwater hung ripe on Leo’s earlobe. “Well—” this time, he completed his own sentence by licking the droplet away. Leo twined his fingers with Izumi’s, and that was how it began.

…

They went apartment-hunting a few years after that. It was spring; the landlord left them alone in the room and went away to attend to other visitors.

Leo took one look and told Izumi, “I want this place.”

“Why?” Izumi had asked. Not that he had any objections—he learnt to trust Leo’s intuition over the years.

“Because the corners between the walls look so clean-cut,” Leo gushed.

“Fine, if you want,” Izumi replied, not unkindly.

“We could put a beanbag here—” at this, he pulled Izumi over and sat them both down. “And it could be our spot.” His hands closed over Izumi’s; his breath snaked about Izumi’s neck. Leo _did_ become a better kisser, Izumi reflected as his lower lip was being nibbled on by his lover. It took him all his will to ignore Leo’s beckoning gaze and stop himself from marking the place his territory then and there.

The empty apartment was not very large, but those bare walls and odd corners seemed like they held their entire future. “I love you,” he mumbled into Leo’s lips, not for the last time.

…

The sun is rising into a foggy morning. We live in a pastiched world: sometimes Izumi is afraid that they’ll turn into a sort of cliché too, afraid that one day they’ll turn too old and then Leo’s world will no longer be in flux.

Behind Izumi, Leo mumbles into a pillow. This is Leo’s state of grace, waking up in the early hours and finding Izumi carving a silhouette in the morning sky through blurry eyes. Maybe we’ll all be okay, Izumi hopes, believes. He looks at the clock, lets time unravel and loses himself in the sight of Leo’s cupid’s bow, Leo’s hands. He waits for his lover to wake up.

Later, “Mr. Sandman” is playing on the phonograph in their living room. Izumi continues staring at the rosy skyline, still a little lost in his memories. Then Leo joins him on the balcony, kisses him on the side of his neck, hands him a cup of coffee. Steam rises into the morning, perhaps a precursor of the future; Izumi sips. Right then and there, he feels as if he is seventeen again, on the cusp of something unexpected and great.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every time I think about izuleo my skin becomes clearer and my future becomes a little dimmer!!! I love Death!! pleas e make my sons happy I AM
> 
> Also don't drink if you're not legal kids


	2. So this is How You Fall in Love

“Izumi, can you do my eyeliner for me, please?” Makoto is hesitant, respectful.

“Of course,” Izumi replies, standing up.

Makoto is perched on his stool, his bangs clipped by his ears. It has become routine for Izumi to help Makoto with his eyeliner, for he is not comfortable with letting strangers put something that close to his eye. The only familiar face amongst the constellation of people that orbits around him is Izumi, who sometimes offers biscuits and advice between photoshoots; as such, the job went to him quite naturally.

“Look up,” Izumi commands, his gaze tracing the contours of Makoto’s face, which are softened by the dressing room lighting.

 _I have to ask Yuu today_ , he thinks to himself. _Or I’ll never be able to say it out loud._

He rests his thumb against the soft spot under Makoto’s eye, sensing the steady pulse beneath the surface as his own heartbeat begins to quicken. He feigns nonchalance as he runs the pencil between Makoto’s lashes gently.

“Say, Yuu. Would you…” he trails off, uncertain.

“Hmm?”

Makoto’s gaze meets Izumi’s. There’s a hint of peach on Makoto’s eyelids, diffusing outwards into a soft, pearly shimmer; dots of caramel brown frame the corners of his eyes. A ghost of blush blooms on his cheekbones like watercolour, and his lips part slightly, sprouting lilies.

God, let this last forever. “Don’t talk. Other eye,” Izumi murmurs.

He escapes to the bathroom as soon as he is finished. Looking at his reflection in the mirror, Izumi senses something wild in his own eyes and finds the tips of his ears dyed pink by his racing heart. _So this is why the buds of flowers bloom in the spring. This is what it looks like._

That May, Makoto quit modelling: like Izumi’s unfinished question, their youth wilted. A sweet scent and an air of poignancy fills the gap Makoto leaves. Izumi sheds his bravery and the chinks in his armour.

Yet, years later, when he meets Makoto again in the hallways of Yumenosaki, the question still lingers on the tip of his tongue: _would you like to kiss me?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The only hobby of mine that is more time- and money-consuming than enstars is makeup lol  
> Also, just throwing this out there: if Izumi had to get his own #look it would be Baekhyun's iconic 2014 burgundy makeup.


	3. His Subject

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the most self-indulgent thing I will ever write

“Leo, I’m getting bored,” Izumi says inconsequentially. He’s perched on the windowsill, the sun behind him gathering around his head like a golden halo.

“Wait just a little bit, I’m nearly done.”

Leo thinks, you’re so beautiful like this. Chiaroscuro is a word made for Izumi, who sits with a sort of lazy grace befitting of a Greek goddess: in Izumi Leo sees the play of light and darkness, two polar complements splattered on the canvas. Perhaps Izumi is merely letting me see him as he is, Leo muses. In Izumi’s heart, guarded by that shell of thin ice, is a center made of plum wine—his bravado hides his awkwardness; his cruelty betrays a desperate desire to take care of somebody. These paradoxical combinations permeate Izumi’s being, manifest themselves in his lips, his waist; Leo, fascinated, ponders the question of love and death and eternity as he manipulates Izumi’s body with his art.

With the precision of an artisan, he cuts into Izumi’s chest. This is Izumi’s heart, beating yellow between his lungs like glass spun from gold, imprisoned by the highways of his humanity. It sprouts crimson ribbons, and they latch onto Leo with an almost-religious force. To Leo, Izumi is an open book: look here, these are the mechanisms that make Izumi ache with need. He sees all of this and, enraptured, he writes to limn the beauty of it all—the light playing across Izumi’s brows, the ripe juncture joining his neck and his shoulders, his lithe form. Here are the notes, the words: water descending from a precipice and into youth, streams merging into rivers into seas, spreading beyond. Leo captures the sunset glory of their afternoon walks, imagining the road before them stretching on forever; he narrates the ephemeral moments after lives when Izumi’s hair is plastered to his forehead and he is beaming. Leo writes Izumi on his papers, etches Izumi into his palms; he composes his past present future from the sight of Izumi’s aquamarine eyes. They call him a genius. His songs make you weep, because you, too, have loved someone.

Now Leo looks up with a smile on his face. He hums, clearly satisfied with his handiwork. Izumi stirs; as soon as he joins Leo to sit cross-legged on the floor, Leo throws an arm around him, whispers _I hope you like it_ into his ear. Izumi hates having his personal space invaded like this, but today he lets Leo’s breath snake about his head and feels himself falling.

Lips still poised next to the shell of Izumi’s ear, Leo hums a tune from an indecipherable mass of musical notes. Izumi reads:

 

> _… so take me to that sunny place_  
>  to the land as spotless as the blossoms on your wreath  
>  lie with me as the fleeting days pass  
>  until the past sinks into these moonlit pools …

This is Leo’s power: to render life in hyperreality. In Leo’s melodies Izumi finds his grandmother’s hands; in Leo’s lyrics he finds himself fully shrouded yet laid bare in a sea of sunflowers and the flowers are all facing him, facing the sun, his heart soaring higher, higher, towards Icarus’s heights. When he inevitably falls, he will fall into Leo’s prose, fixated in time-space by Leo’s conundrums and idiosyncrasies, rendered flawless by Michelangelo’s chisel.

And he, Leo’s knight, is to bring art to life, to beat his sparrow’s wings and lift himself off the sheets.

Izumi is searching for the right words. “That sounds… prose-y,” he manages.

Leo chuckles. “You know, the right word is prosaic.”

“Yes, but that would imply that it’s boring.”

 _Bor-ring_. Two syllables. They are not boring, Izumi muses (not with Leo). _Pro-sa-ic_. The three lifetimes he has lived, waiting, waiting—before, absence, after. They are just one away from subliminal, and as he lets the music lace them ever closer together, he realizes that they maybe have already found El Dorado. Between dreams, their bodies sway to the undulating rhythm of life, the past merely a blur, the future merely an _if_. We are not prosaic. We are phenomenal, bombastic, a paean, art elevated from reality; we are born from Monet’s water lilies. I love you I love you I love you.

And you love me too, don’t you? “Mmm-hmm, you’re right. My songs are not boring at all,” Leo drawls, “but only because you’re my muse.” He brushes his lips against Izumi’s forehead.

Izumi wants to say something else, something along the lines of _thank you for always seeing the beauty in me_ ; however, Leo is beginning to look into that metaphysical space again, so Izumi lets him find the words by himself—he always can. The sun is beginning to set, and, seeing his lover’s half-lidded eyes set on him in the ochre haze, Izumi thinks that maybe they are merely two frescoed men dancing in suspended motion. The road before them stretches on forever.

So Leo renders them on paper and paints the blues bluer and the reds redder. This is the blood that runs in Izumi’s arteries and Leo’s veins, the sticky fluid that binds them, that binds us, for now or for eternity, together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you made it to the end, thanks for humoring me~~
> 
> Lyrics re-translated and (heavily) adapted for this fic from this translation of Silent Oath- http://tieba.baidu.com/p/4905898954/


	4. Adoring Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not fluff

Makoto first saw beauty in his world in Izumi. He was thirteen; Izumi was turning fourteen soon. Surrounded by bouquets of flowers and filled with the sort of pride that was authentic to children, Izumi was luminous. Light seemed to descend upon him, hugging the tip of his nose and his cupid’s bow. When he tilted his head, he was resting his cheeks in the palm of the Graces. The room sung.

And his eyes, his eyes. Makoto felt the world opening up beneath him, and it called for him to swim in the winter sea to play love-me-not with fish. The landscape of his mind glowed in a grapefruit pink and the sun fell and rose and grew until its warmth encircled his heart, pulling him down until he wanted to gasp for air. He opened his mouth to breathe but his lips formed into a kite instead.

Perhaps that beauty promised a respite from the wasteland that was his life. Like a marionette, he was toyed around by others; yet, like an infant, he was precious to them. He did his job mechanically, without feeling. At the end of each day, after the entertained guests that populated his life made their exit, he would collapse on his bed and in dreamless slumbers. Every day was to continue on like that until his youth faded away into an ugly black—that was, until Izumi materialized in his life.

Izumi. Makoto used to turn the word around in his mouth, wondering how each syllable fit, wondered if it would be too presumptuous of him to call someone by their first name. Then Izumi walked up to him, his back straight like any respectable ballerina’s, and called him _Yuu_. A promise.

Makoto didn’t know how to dance, but that night he locked himself in his room and let his heart guide him into an arabesque.

 

“You know, Sena’s kind of a formal way to address a friend,” Izumi said one day.

“I suppose…”

“Who am I to you, Yuu?”

His eyes, his eyes. “A big brother,” Makoto managed.

“Then that’s what you’ll call me from now on, okay?”

Then, occurring as swiftly as a trap springing shut to nothing more than the wind, Izumi did the Unforgivable Thing: he joined the oppressive forces that suffocated him.

 

Makoto kept some Polaroids in a compact box in his closet. The top third was composed of pictures from his unit, of Mao’s arm around his shoulders or Subaru gorging himself on street food as Hokuto stared on with disapproval; further down in the stack he kept pictures he took before the entrance ceremony, back when he first saw the buildings that carved out an outline in the sky and wanted to do the same for himself. He still wanted to do that, to defy all the phantasmal clichés and his own fears, and his resolve only grew as he exceeded even his own expectations. After a particularly long day he would stare at the now-familiar buildings behind a foreground of spring flowers in bloom, smile, and wonder if he, too, could live forever in the pictures.

Sometimes, however, he would remove each photo from the pile to reveal snapshots of Sena Izumi.

Here was a picture of Izumi from that one time he made Makoto take photos of him, since _it was a good skin day, Yuu_. He looked uncharacteristically un-modellike back then, neglecting his best angle, even showed his teeth; of course, Izumi made Makoto take another one, leaving him with the flawed copy.

Here was a picture of Izumi kicking pebbles by the beach, legs outstretched, smile radiant—did he yell in pain afterwards? Makoto couldn’t remember.

There was a laminated cutout of a magazine too, of their only shoot together. Makoto recalled wanting to wear Izumi’s clothes. (Izumi always had the nice clothes.)  Maybe that was an instance of precognition: he’d get what he wished for years later. Izumi looked his most bewitching there, with the lights resting on his face like it was their home, hugging every eyelash, every subsequent lie. And there Makoto was, next to him, the most and least beautiful he would ever be, the shadow of a strand of Izumi’s hair snaking around his hand.

The thing about photos was, they only captured the beautiful things. Staring at those Polaroids, Makoto would feel a familiar heaviness, and, with a laboured shrug, reorder them (group photos first, then the individual photos ranked by happiness, then Yumenosaki, and then—well.) before closing the lid. Pictures on top of pictures on top of pictures of Izumi he kept, waiting for someone to erase his weakness and the whispers of _sometimes_ between the verses.

 

See, Makoto really didn’t want to see Izumi at Yumenosaki.

Time stripped Izumi of his innocence. Whether by fate or by design, Makoto read his modelling interviews: in between talking about trifling matters like clothing and his hairstyle, Izumi would invariably promote Knights, smiling as if he was the moon. Seeing Izumi like that made Makoto sick and, oddly, relieved: there was nothing special about him, after all. He was just like everyone else, chasing effervescent dreams with barbed fingers and no resolve.

(Izumi had a very different way of loving people, but Makoto wasn’t destined to know.) Even as Makoto turned away, Izumi tried, as if spitting on his face. Every time Izumi reminded Makoto that the half-life of being an idol was a blink and a cry of pain like teacups being shattered and that he was squandering his youth, Makoto felt anger, yes, but also extreme sadness. He didn’t know what Izumi wanted from him. At Izumi’s most desperate, he seemed almost obsequious; at his most demanding, he was disgusting.

Izumi was the breeze that carried away the lingering scent of Makoto’s youth. Makoto told himself that he only would only deal with Izumi as a way to shed his past; after all, he had someplace else to call home now, and recently he felt as his heart could finally beat for someone else. Sometimes, however, he thought about the past and felt himself slip.

 

_Sometimes—_

_“Yuu...”_

_“_ _Yuu. Don’t go, you’ll get hurt.”_

_“Yuu, I’m sorry.”_

_Sunlight pours from the sky in buckets. Your world is shrouded by light, as is mine. He dances to_ _our farewell song, his feet crisscrossing the space between us._

 

The butterfly effect postulated that small actions had large effects. Maybe, in parallel universe, Makoto would have fallen less hard, and things would have been different.

Zhuang Zhou dreamt of butterflies in his sleep and wondered if his human form was a butterfly’s dream. Makoto dreamt of butterflies and wondered if Izumi dreamt of him.

Outside his window, a butterfly with two-toned wings flew into a web of silver strings.

 

In those wild dark nights, Makoto would lie in bed and count the length of each breath he took before he fell asleep. As air escaped from his lungs, he thought about drowning; his thoughts would inevitably bring him back to that day when he dove for pearls for the first time in his life and found Izumi at the bottom of the ocean. In moments like those he had the illusion that Izumi lived in his lungs, such that every rise and fall of his chest bound them closer. That was merely his imagination, of course. When the sun came through the blinds Makoto would gasp and, for the last time, rip every piece of his past from his chest.

Yet, time and time again, when he heard that familiar voice calling him, he still turned around, if only to glance, for a brief moment, at the vestiges of the person he used to love.  _My big brother._ Then he would exhale and his breath would become air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the original version of this piece, I labelled the Unforgivable Thing as Izumi being mediocre. I still stand by that sentiment (within the canon of this work) considering the fact that Makoto was not able to tolerate the stagnancy in the industry, which would, in its own way, translate into mediocrity (or, at the very least, an insulting homogeny with everyone else).
> 
> I’d like to explore this point more given the context of #3 and #4 in this series, which are both leoizu. I didn’t particularly notice, but I repeatedly returned the idea that Izumi was able to find something differing from the norm by being with Leo, but he does this with some degree of reluctance (especially in #3). In the same way that Izumi wants to resist change, he is able to stay in an industry that suffocated Makoto.
> 
> I am not, in any way, comparing the merit of these two ships, but I do think this exercise offers some insight into how I read Leo, Izumi and Makoto: Leo as a change-bringer, Izumi as a change-resister, and Makoto as the change-wisher. A friend actually brought up the fact that these three make a great love triangle, and if I really think about it, since Leo is able to bring the change that Makoto wants, leomako might make sense!?! Of course, the timelines don't match up, and Makoto is able to find that sort of newness that he wishes for with Trickstar, but it's still a pretty interesting idea nonetheless.
> 
> I honestly wish I could explore model trio more... maybe one day.
> 
> Also I swear I have more than 3 Izumi ships


	5. A Dance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt "Things you said when we were on top of the world" a few weeks ago.

There is a lookout point on the tallest mountain in the city where I’m from, the kind of place that’d make you fall in love, I bet. Trams run up and down the incline every day, and people always lean dangerously over the railing with their arms outstretched, hoping that, by some miracle, they can touch the sun, which hangs high and brilliant and beautiful in the sky.

After dark, the view becomes different. The last tram carries the bustle away from the mountain, and, in the night, the city looks like a sprawling starfish. Lights blink in and out of existence, as if to shine for the nigh-starless sky; people pour out of a closing bar. Cars scuttle on the edge one’s line of sight, their horns muted by distance and the sanctified silence—did someone just bang a door shut?

 _No, no, that must be my imagination_ , Izumi thinks. They’re looking over this gem of a city, him and Leo, their shoulders almost touching. Leo had suggested that they hike up the mountain to see the sun break into a new day; Izumi struggled to understand why, but Leo looked uncharacteristically serious, so he went, anyway. He can’t say he regrets doing so—the view really is breathtaking.

Leo breaks the silence. “Hush.”

“… I wasn’t even saying anything.” Here Leo goes again, saying something nonsensical.

“Well, you were _thinking._ Loudly.”

“Oh, yeah? What was I thinking?”

Izumi regrets saying that. The truth is, lately, he is starting to believe that Leo has an uncanny way of reading people’s thoughts: every time he steals glances at Leo during practice, Leo turns around and gives him odd look. A terrible realization, considering that would give anything to hide his thoughts from Leo, especially since _he thinks about Leo most of the time_.

 To his relief, people can’t really read minds, after all. “You’re thinking about…the live next week?” Leo guesses.

 “Wrong.”

“What _were_ you thinking about, then?”

 _About you._ “You know what? You were right. I was worried about the live.”

Leo flashes a peace sign. “See? I’m always right. But you don’t have to worry, we’ll be fine. We can practice here, if you want. I haven't gotten the dance down, anyway.”

“No, that’s fine. And didn’t you direct, like, half the dance? You should know your own routine.”

“Whatever, just help me, okay?”

“… fine.” For some reason, Izumi has always been at his beck and call.

They stand slightly apart, facing each other. By the soft glow of city lights, Leo’s jaw, shirtfront, and cuffs are dyed coral, and Izumi notices how well pink goes with orange for the first time in his life. He clears his throat and dances their routine slowly, tapping one foot behind the heel of another, flourishing both of his arms in turn. When he finishes, Leo gives him a smile that makes him think that all of this is worth it: hiking up a mountain in the middle of the night and dancing half-asleep for someone he likes.

“Like this?” Leo takes a step closer.

“Yeah.”

They dance with the city as their audience. Mid-dance, lifting one arm and leg, Izumi gets the fleeting feeling that he is flying; indeed, when Leo mirrors him, they look like a baby pigeon spreading its wings for its first flight. Just for a moment they are moving separately and together, and they look at each other and Izumi isn’t afraid anymore; then the spell is broken, before either of them can take an irreverent breath, before either of them notices the moment has come to be, even.

Still, Izumi thinks that life is kind of like a ballroom dance: you move around in hopes that someone in the crowd will move with you, too. With his chest mere inches away from Leo’s, he begins to wish that Leo can actually read his thoughts, because then he doesn’t have to tell Leo how he feels about him. The thin skyline is expanding, navy layered on orange layered on pink—indeed, orange and pink go well together. Much like the sun, which is ascending into a new day, Leo sheds light on even the smallest corners of Izumi’s youth.

Leo can’t read Izumi’s thoughts. Instead, he thinks to himself, _the highest altitude isn’t up in the sky, with the aliens and the oxygen masks;_ it exists here, in his city, with the person who takes his breath away. He inhales anyway, and the rising sun fills his lungs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your Honour, I swear izuleo isn't my only ship


	6. In Transit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two super short one-shots I put into one chapter!  
> The first is set after Izumi's first visit in Lionheart and before Leo comes back to school.  
> The second piece was inspired by a Twitter thread and posted on the site almost half a year ago.

_New Moon (December 4 2017)_

They don’t talk about how Leo left anymore, even though they both want to, not when they see each other like this. Sometimes Izumi asks Leo to come see them over text—he puts his entire weight into it when he hits SEND, even though he knows Leo will ignore him until he softens and sends something like “have you eaten today?”

They’re in Leo’s room, their backs against the side of Leo’s bed. Night has set; outside the buildings are grey, backlit by rows of streetlights; the light spills into the dark room, offering blurred outlines to Leo and his visitor. Cold wind from the open window washes on the heated floorboards, and Izumi sinks further into himself.

He came to see Leo before the school year started on a whim. “At least you didn’t make Ruka cry this time,” Leo sniffed as he let Izumi in. His room was hastily cleaned—some candy wrappers were shoveled to the wall—but Izumi noticed that there were no signs of Leo returning to songwriting.

“You’re doing better than I thought,” Izumi tells him half-honestly.

“I can’t see how living like this is living well in any way,” Leo replies. Izumi knows that he should say _then come back_ , but instead he lets Leo’s statement linger. He can’t tell Leo when they’re both sitting unmoving in a dark room, their shoulders almost touching.

Leo clears his throat. “You know, when I was younger I wanted my existence to be yearned after. Like the sun. Kind of fitting, right?” He points at his hair. “But I guess that isn’t possible now. Not that it’s what I really want anymore.” He offers a faint smile.

 _I don’t care. This is your fault and I hate you,_ Izumi wants to accuse. _You hurt me when you hurt yourself; I can forgive you for hurting me but I can’t forgive you for hurting. I can’t forgive myself for letting you hurt. I can’t forgive you for making me feel like I have to breathe for two people every morning, as if if I didn’t try hard enough then you’d die with me. I’ll hug you and kiss you even if both of our bodies feel cold because I stand it like this, when you’re next to me and looking outside of your room like this. Like it’s not my fault._

“You don’t have to say anything, Sena.” Sensing Izumi tense, Leo says again. “I’m fine with it being just like this. You don’t have to come if you don’t want to either. Ruka is making me eat and I kinda like staying in my room anyway.”

“I—” they both begin.

“You go first,” Izumi offers.

“No, it’s fine. What did you want to say?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Hmmm… I forgot what I was going to say…” Leo smiles.

His expression is incredibly sad. Izumi opens his mouth, pauses, closes it again; then, quickly, before his companion can react, he presses his forehead against Leo’s neck briefly. Then he leaves, before he can let himself be subsumed in that squalid, honey-like room.

That night he prays to every god he knows, begs each one to save them from that room. _I have forgiven him,_ he cries to the impassive figures in his head. _I have forgiven Leo because there is nothing to forgive. I just want to give—give—give—my person. My being. Let me become the moon that decorates the view from his window. Let me be there._

 

_Metronome (June 12 2017)_

“Hey, I broke the metronome. Can I borrow you for a sec?”

“Okay?” Izumi replies, slightly confused. Leo rests his head against Izumi’s chest, listening the blood reach unopened chambers.

“Your heart will do just fine.”

“What the—“ Izumi cuts himself off when something inside of him contracts rapidly. 

And then Leo hums. He hums like he’s blowing bubbles, letting each note blink out of the afternoon before sending off a new one. His voice isn’t mellifluous but his body is—it is buzzing and electrifying and calming.

This position is not comfortable for Izumi: he feels his arm being crushed and his spine going unbearably rigid. He endures anyway, since he promised himself that he’d do anything for the boy. _I owe him this much_ , he thinks. So his heart beats like a metronome, or like the snows of yesteryear falling with rhythm and magnetism.

Then Leo looks up at Izumi, his eyes half moons pushing into a new day.

“Do you like it so far? I made this for you.” Just like the old days. Izumi thinks he hears a thousand flowers sigh. He wonders if people can live on Saturn. 

“Sena, your heart rate sped up. I can’t compose like this.” Leo sniggers and looks away, and Izumi feels himself relax into the old routine again.

“Shut up,” he says, without conviction. His conviction has its head against his chest, listening to his heart beat. He prays that he can stay like this forever, in a happiness that has been hard-fought and one that he does not think he deserve; he steals time from god anyway, lives his second youth defiantly.

Leo, for his part, says nothing—he knows about the things they don’t say, and he’s waiting for Izumi to say them. Light floods them; the future stretches out lazily and overflows the room, spilling onto the sidewalks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow it's like almost 4AM and I'm Back At It Again. I hate time stamping these because you can see that I haven't improved at all in the past six months smh!


End file.
